


The Birthday Bash

by BeveStuscemi



Series: Very Important American History [2]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Armstrong's Assassination Kink, Boston Baked Beans, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 09:58:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15289041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeveStuscemi/pseuds/BeveStuscemi
Summary: The Winds of Destruction have blown him off. George Sears has been dead for about eight years. Even Edwin can't attend the best birthday bash Colorado has ever seen.But none are so eager to help Steven Armstrong enjoy his forty-seventh birthday as the 35th President of the United States.And you know the rest.





	The Birthday Bash

Steven Armstrong was a man who lived by what one would describe as a routinised regime. Every morning of every day, Steven would follow the same detailed procedure with robotic accuracy and surgeon like precision. Breakfast was his staple bacon omelette (always made with five eggs) and a strong cup of black coffee (always in his favourite mug). Showers never lasted more than fifteen minutes and Steven always used the white, unperfumed soap he bought in bulk at Costco. All his suits were exactly the same to eliminate potential issues such as a mismatching shirt, so he was dressed by eight o’ clock and had ten minutes spare to look over any messages from Edwin the PA. Steven had abided by this routine for all of his tenure as Colorado State Senator and had perfected it so well that he performed it without even thinking.  
The one exception of course, was his birthday.

Steven’s alarm clock buzzed at six on the dot and he awoke with childlike excitement. Throwing his tree-trunk legs over the side of his bed, Steven reached for his glasses and grinned to himself. The mailman always visited at around six and Steven wanted to be there when the influx of birthday cards came pouring through his letterbox. Steven got up from his bed and rummaged in his bedside cabinet, looking for the cassette tape he liked to play on special occasions. It was a rare recording of Ager and Yellen’s _Happy Days Are Here Again_ or as Steven had dubbed it; _The FDR Song._ He placed it in his cassette player and hit the play button, smiling as the cassette began produce the mechanical whirring noise which then shifted to the staticky audio of the 1920s recording.  
“This birthday’s gonna be so fuckin’ good!” He announced, already imagining the party at the local bar. He had planned to invite the entire Denver office as well as the Winds, wanting to make his birthday the biggest bash Colorado had ever seen. He was even going to invite Edwin, hoping his influence was great enough to let the bartender ignore the minimum drinking age. Hell, he could even continue the party at his place and watch Edwin get absolutely fucked on the best bourbon money could buy. With the recording still playing, Steven bolted downstairs to his front door and was delighted to see a stack of letters fall onto his American flag mat.  
“Fuck yeah!” He said, as he scooped them up in his meaty hands. Quickly, he began to sift through them.  
“Electric bill…water bill…hairline treatment…” Steven’s smile faltered. “What the fuck? Where are my cards?”  
He went through the cards another two times before throwing them onto the table next to the door. Steven gave a small smile, though his fists were still clenched.  
“They’ll probably give them to me in person,” He decided. “They’d obviously want to see my reaction when drowning in cards and gifts and shit.”  
Following his minor disappointment regarding his cards, Steven followed the rest of the routine without any major changes. After he showered and got dressed, Steven stood in front of his mirror, hands on his hips. His suit looked very bland, almost as if he was missing something. Granted, it was the same grey suit he’d wore for about half a decade, complete with the same gold tie but on his birthday, it lacked that certain _pizzazz_. Then Steven remembered. Opening his oak wardrobe, he pulled out his tie drawer and felt for the small box he kept at the very back. It wasn’t particularly big, but it kept some of Steven’s most treasured possessions; the picture of him and his team holding the ’89 trophy, a rock he found outside the Lincoln Memorial and his 38 th birthday card from George Sears. Upon finding the card (which was illustrated with a monkey), Steven opened it up.

 _Dear Steve (my bro)_  
_Happy birthday u piece of shit lol_  
_u gettin old as FUCK now!!_  
_we partyin hard in the white house 2nite! Ocelot is gonna DJ!! :D_  
_All da best, Georgie Boy xxxx_

Steven often thought about George Sears and how he missed that glorious bastard and his wild antics. He was probably in his top five US presidents but that was neither here nor there. At the bottom of the card Sears had attached a small badge which was bright blue in colour and read ‘BIRTHDAY BOY’ in neon yellow lettering. Steven unattached it and clipped it to his suit, beaming at himself in the mirror.  
“Lock up your daughters tonight, Denver.”

-

At ten to nine, Steven parked his car outside the Denver office and practically sprang into the building. Pushing open the ornate double doors, Steven gave a large grin to Edwin who was sitting behind his desk and typing something onto the computer.  
“Good mornin’, Edwin!” Steven continued his grin at the young man who cowered slightly in intimidation.  
“Good morning, Mister Armstrong, Sir.” Edwin said, returning a shaky smile of his own.  
Armstrong gave a sudden booming laugh and Edwin nearly fell off his chair. “It _is_ a good morning, ain’t it? Tell you what, son, coffee is on _you_ today!”  
Edwin blinked. “Sure thing, Sir.” He stammered out, not making eye contact.  
Armstrong’s mouth twitched slightly. “Ain’t you gonna ask _why_?”  
“Why, Sir?” Edwin’s voice cracked, and his overall tone was unsure.  
“’Cos it’s my birthday, dipshit! And you’re invited to my birthday party after work.”  
Edwin’s face reddened, and Steven could barely tell when his ginger hair ended and pink face began. “Oh no, Sir! I’m sorry but I can’t drink, and my mom will have my ass if she finds—”    
“Bullshit!” Armstrong cut him off. “You can come to mine and party there. We’ll split a bottle of Jack Daniels and get wasted.”  
Edwin recoiled slightly at this. “I don’t know, Sir. I like working for you, but I’ve got a girlfriend and I want to keep our relationship strictly professional. She’s still mad that I called her Chester Arthur in bed and I don’t wanna add fuel to the fire.”  
Steven pinched the bridge of his nose. “I wasn’t tryna—” He rolled his eyes. “No, fuck you Edwin! I’ve revoked your invitation, you little shit. Have fun being a boring asshole.”  
Steven walked out of the lobby and into his office, making sure he gave Edwin a filthy look as he closed his door. He sat down at his desk and flicked through the paperwork Edwin had left him. Part of him hoped that someone had stuck a birthday card in there as a little present, but all that was in the pile was three hundred sheets of legislation. Steven scowled.  
Next to his photograph of Ronald Reagan, Steven’s telephone began to buzz and within seconds, Edwin’s whiny voice filled the room.  
“ _Mister Armstrong, Mistral’s here to see you.”_  
“Send her in!” Steven kicked his feet onto his desk, trying to look as relaxed as possible for Mistral’s undoubtedly large gift. He wondered if it was solely from her or a joint gift from all the Winds but when she walked into the office in her thick civilian clothing, all hopes were thrown out the window.

“Hello, Mistral.”  
“Hello, Armstrong.” Mistral sat in the leather seat opposite him, leg crossed over the other. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”  
“Is it about _this?”_ He pointed to his birthday badge and Mistral squinted for a closer look.  
“What? _Non_. I wanted to talk to you about Khamsin. I do not think he is qualified enough to be a member of the Winds of Destruction, but he will not stop moaning about it.”    
Armstrong removed his legs from the desk and sighed. Every other week Mistral would don her civilian clothing and waltz into his office to complain about Khamsin. Had they both been human, he’d have told them to fuck and get it over with, but he wasn’t entirely sure if the cyborg freaks had genitalia, so he zoned out to let Mistral complain. When the rant had finally subsided, Armstrong changed the subject as quickly as he could.  
“So Mistral, plans for tonight?”  
“Huh?” Her head turned. “No, _pourquoi_?”  
Steven nearly hit his head against his desk in frustration. “It’s my birthday.”  
Mistral cringed. “Oh, err… I was just planning on staying it. _Je n'aime pas les boîtes de nuit_.” She chuckled awkwardly. “Sorry.”  
Armstrong groaned. Did everyone in this building think he wanted to fuck them? He straightened up. “Okay, what about Sundowner? Monsoon?”  
“Both busy, I believe. Monsoon is doing fieldwork and I think Sundowner might be getting a repair.”  
“And Khamsin?”  
“He is notoriously difficult to get hold of. He might make it for your next birthday.” Mistral flicked some cotton off her trousers and stood up. “I have a maintenance check soon, if you will please excuse me.” And she gestured towards the door.  
Upon reaching the door she turned back. “Oh yeah, _bon anniversaire.”_ She said unenthusiastically and gave a curt nod before leaving the office and walking out of the building.  
“Fuckin’ assholes…” Armstrong spat.

-

By the time his office hours concluded, Steven Armstrong was in a foul mood. Not one of his colleagues had wished him a happy birthday let alone bought him a gift. When he asked them to attend his birthday bonanza at the local club, everybody had more important things to be getting on with. Children’s recitals, anniversaries and a funeral were suddenly more important than Armstrong, who had learned a valuable lesson: snakes don’t hiss, they refuse to attend your dank-ass party.  
When he pulled up his car into his driveway, Steven stared angrily into his steering wheel. Back in the day, his parties were awesome. George Sears used to outdo himself on the affair and would order bourbon by the gallon, purchase cyborg piñatas and would have Ocelot remix the national anthem just for Armstrong.  
“And I’m just stuck with these assholes.” Steven said, somewhat sadly.

When Steven left his car with the notion of busting out the tub of Vaseline and socking it to his Theodore Roosevelt waifu pillow, he noticed that the inside of his house appeared to be in total darkness. This was odd. Armstrong didn’t give a half-penny fuck about power consumption and would leave his lights on to piss off his neighbours. He huffed, too irritated to deal with a power cut and made his way up the stone pathway to his door. Unlocking the front door, Steven was greeted by the smell of something sickly and artificial and he sniffed the air trying to decipher what it was. But whatever the smell was, it smelled pretty damn good. The smell seemed to want to lure him into his kitchen, which was the final door at the end of his narrow hallway. The hallway was dark and somewhat ominous, with his Americana memorabilia hidden in the blackness. Regardless, Steven followed the scent down the hallway but he stopped about four feet away. Under his kitchen door was a dim pink glow and kitchen seemed to be warmer than any other place in the hallway. Armstrong’s initial thought was of fire but the lack of smoke informed him otherwise. Pushing open the door to his large kitchen, Armstrong stood in shock.  
On the centre island counter stood a large white cake, decorated in red and blue icing and complete with designs of stars and stripes. The cake stood at about six-foot-tall, nearly touching the ceiling of the kitchen. The cake was separated into three tiers, each one smaller than the last but each decorated with the same tall candles which caused the sickly-sweet scent.  
“Whomst the fucketh?” Armstrong’s Texas accent disappeared from the shock and he sounded akin to one of those Amish beltway pansies. He coughed and regained his dialect. “Who the fuck?” He re-tried, looking for his colleagues or that little bitch Edwin.

“ _Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…”_    
Steven Armstrong’s mouth fell open as a hairy leg protruded out from the cake.  
“ _Happy birthday, Mister Senator…”_  
Armstrong recognised that thick, Boston accent. It hit him like a tonne of bricks. But it couldn’t be. It _shouldn’t_ be…  
“ _Happy birthday to you…”_  
“President Kennedy?”  
Atop of his marbled island counter, the formerly deceased President John F. Kennedy was posed next to the giant birthday cake, one hand on his hip. Apparently, he’d also regrouped with Marilyn Monroe in the afterlife and had borrowed her iconic birthday dress to fit the theme.  
“You expecting McKinley or something?”  
“I wasn’t expectin’ anyone.” Armstrong was going to add ‘dead president or otherwise’ but that would have seemed rude. Besides, the South was famed for it’s hospitality and he was gracious enough to extend it to his New England visitor.  
“You should be glad I came then, unless you want to be alone in your pahlah.”  
Armstrong blinked a few times. “Pah-lah?”  
“Yeah, your pahlah.” Kennedy pointed out into the hallway and into Armstrong’s living room.  
“Oh, _parlour._ Yeah, you’re right.”  
“So whad’ya say daddy-o, should we make this a real party or what?”  
Maybe it was the heat of the candles, the overwhelmingly sweet scent or perhaps the word ‘daddy-o’ but Armstrong was sweating like Lee Harvey Oswald in police custody. And that was a good thing.  
“Why the fuck not?” Steven pulled himself out a chair from under his dining table and leaned in real close to the deceased Mister Kennedy. “Ready when you are.”

***ATTENTION READERS: THIS IS YOUR CUE TO PLAY ‘CHERRY PIE’ BY WARRANT***

“Put the radio on, Mister Senator.”  
Armstrong obliged and flicked on the switch and was greeted by a naughty guitar opening.  
“Heh. Not bad.” He said before relaxing back into his dining chair.  
As though ignited by the cheesy hair metal music, Kennedy began to roll his sequined dress up to his knees, giving Armstrong a clear view of his toned, hairy legs. He dropped in time to the music, arousing Steven who was beginning to suffer with his own Cuban Missile Crisis. Armstrong’s proverbial IRBM got harder as Kennedy slowly began to wiggle out of the tight-fitting dress. Beneath the form-hugging fabric, Kennedy was clad in naught but a navy striped bikini set, no doubt also belonging to Monroe.  
“Very nice.” Armstrong said appreciatively, though his grey suit trousers felt increasingly tight and his voice was strained.  
“I know how to treat my senators,” Saucy Jack gave a wink. “But I think it’s time we sorted out the atomic bomb you got there.”  
Before Armstrong could even shout ‘Sniper!’, Kennedy was on him like maple syrup on Boston baked beans. Working with the crotch of Armstrong’s trousers, Kennedy freed his AGM-28 Hound Dog from its confines.  
“If we’re talking nuclear weapons, I’d say you were more of a Fat Man than a Little Boy.” Kennedy said, with a slight grin.  
Armstrong inspected his dick and looked at Kennedy. “I’d say it was the H-bomb ‘cos it surpasses the G-spot.”  
Shitty puns aside, Kennedy took Armstrong’s dick in his mouth with the same ferocity he took the bullet to the side of the head. Armstrong ran his hand through Kennedy’s hair and wondered if he had an assassination kink or if he’d receive a visit from President Garfield anytime soon.

Whilst getting head from a dead president was a strange scenario, it was also a very pleasurable one. Kennedy’s tinny Massachusetts vibrato provided an undercurrent vibration which worked alongside the sucking sensation. As the president looked up, Armstrong pictured him getting absolutely railed by Dwight Eisenhower, the same way Eisenhower had fucked him with his approval of the Bay of Pigs Invasion back in ’61. Needless to say, Steven Armstrong was about to turn Kennedy’s mouth into a Boston cream pie.  
“Jack, I’m gonna—”  
Kennedy pulled off, debauched look on his face. “I like it messy Steven, think about how I handled the Vietnam War.”  
“Ooh fuck.” Steven pulled Kennedy back onto his dick and prepared himself for the wave of cum-munism that would be invading Kennedy’s New Frontier.  
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Jack!” Armstrong shouted as he finally launched his missile. He realised that taking the Lord’s name in vain wasn’t the best thing to do in front of a Catholic but this was the same Catholic that had affairs and sucked a dick, so whatever.  
A tidal wave of lethargy struck Armstrong as he pulled up his boxer briefs and trousers. Exhausted, he fell back into his chair and watched Kennedy through the fog of his glasses with a satisfied smile on his face.  
“I’ll give you my thanks for the blowjob.”  
Kennedy merely shrugged and returned his own smile. “I don't know anyone who can do it better than I can.”  
“We’ll see about that…” Armstrong replied, thinking about Garfield as he drifted off to sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The fact I mentioned James Garfield kinda sets up the series for part three. Whoops.  
> But regardless, this is probably the dumbest thing I've ever typed and I high-key live for it.  
> Enjoy your Boston baked beans, guys.


End file.
